


The New Year's Manners Affair

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all Thrush agents are impolite... even when keeping Kuryakin chained next to a bomb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Year's Manners Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Down the Chimney Affair #2 (2005) over on Livejournal, for lazy_neutrino.

Thrush-- or at least certain members thereof-- had the strangest notions sometimes. Case in point: the room in which Illya Kuryakin found himself chained next to a bomb. As far as he could tell, the room belonged to one of several hotel chains. The king-sized bed, the floral polyester bedspread, the night stand (with lamp) on either side of the bed, the dark blue wing chair, the small desk, and the 13" inch television (color, with a clicker) all hinted that he was being held in an upscale establishment. From the twinkling lights seen through the sheer drapes, Kuryakin knew he was still in Manhattan. A selection of recent magazines laid spread out next to him on the bed. If not for the throbbing in the back of his head and the straining of his right wrist against the handcuff that kept him firmly attached to the bed's headboard, he could really enjoy himself in the quietly elegant surroundings.  
  
Perhaps Thrush's latest ploy involved confusing its captives. If so, he could see many a 'foe' succumb to the method.  
  
Still, it wouldn't do to sit around and contemplate Thrush's operations on a metaphysical level, not when the bomb's fuse happily counted down the 38 minutes until detonation. Kuryakin had been relieved of the usual-- his Special, his communicator, his belt, and his shoes-- and had been left on a chain so short that he could be only on the bed. The bomb sat placidly just out of his range of movement. Options for escape remained scant. He wondered if he had worn the pair of pants with the stainless steel wire worked into the hems. Since he had only two pairs of dark grey pants, the odds were even up. He brought his knees up to his chest and reached for a hem.  
  
A key in the lock, though, encouraged him to stretch back out. Since he knew he couldn't duck if Thrush came in shooting, he figured that an air of bored resignation might suit better. Surely Thrush wouldn't expect an U.N.C.L.E. agent to look _comfortable_ in captivity.  
  
A slight man about Illya's age entered the room, making sure the door closed behind him with a judicious application of his foot. He wore a well-tailored tuxedo, had a shaggy mop of ginger hair, and carried a tray supporting an unopened champagne bottle in a cooler and two glasses. "Ah, you're awake. Excellent."  
  
"You were obviously expecting me to be awake."  
  
"Oh, the glasses? True, true. Still... I am a firm believer in maintaining the social niceties. I'm Ian O'Hearn, by the way. I'll be your… erm, host, I suppose, for this evening." He spoke with a touch of an Irish lilt, and seemed genuinely pleasant. "Shall I open, or would you prefer to do the honors?"  
  
"I'll give it a shot." Kuryakin felt it best to play along for the moment.  
  
O'Hearn rested the tray on the far nightstand, then handed over the bottle, careful that his hand and his prisoner's had the length of the bottle between. Kuryakin grabbed the champagne with his left hand, and found he had just enough slack in the chain to easily work the foil off the bottle's neck. He kept a firm eye on the Thrush representative. O'Hearn waited patiently, hands clasped behind back, a cheerful expression on his face.  
  
Kuryakin finished with the foil and tossed it over the bomb. He noted he now had 32 minutes (approximately) left to live. Sighing, he started in on the wire holding the cork down. "Is it the champagne itself or the glass that's been tainted?"  
  
"Oh, neither. Honestly! You're going to be gone in half an hour--"  
  
"Thirty-one minutes!"  
  
O'Hearn nodded once, accepting the correction graciously. "Why speed up the process?"  
  
Kuryakin shrugged. "Why indeed?"  
  
"Exactly my point!" O'Hearn settled on the bed. "I've been trying to tell the higher-ups that for months! Thrush would have a _much_ better success rate if it simply minded its manners more."  
  
"Really." Kuryakin put the wire aside and, using his shirttail as a towel, set about removing the cork.  
  
"Think about it, Mr. Kuryakin. Who would you say is winning at the moment? U.N.C.L.E. or Thrush?"  
  
"Being that I am terribly biased, I would have to say U.N.C.L.E." The cork came loose with a soft "pop"; he passed the bottle back to the Thrush operative.  
  
O'Hearn filled the two glasses. "I'd have to agree-- and so does Thrush Central, which is why they're trying everything under the sun to gain an edge." He offered Kuryakin his choice of champagne flute.  
  
Illya picked one, took it, and raised it in silent toast. He mimed sipping the bubbly drink. "Excellent vintage," he lied.  
  
O'Hearn grinned. "I know my way around the hotel's wine cellar…." He took a drink, then added, "See, it's my theory that if Thrush were actually _nice_ to people in its subjugation practices, we'd get a lot further along a lot faster. I mean, torture and intimidation, that's going to get _anyone's_ back up."  
  
"Oh, quite."  
  
"It's through presenting a helpful and compassionate face-- while of course doing our part to take over government establishments and the like-- that we'll be able to finally achieve our goals."  
  
"Ah. I see. Interesting idea." Kuryakin glanced at the bomb, then back at O'Hearn, raising an eyebrow. "And how does my round and shiny companion fit into your scheme?"  
  
O'Hearn's expression turned sheepish. "Erm, it doesn't, actually. I'm still trying to get the higher-ups to see reason. At least I was able to get them to compromise a little. Having a bit of champagne before you die is _much_ better than being tortured for information, wouldn't you say?"  
  
"All things considered, I'd prefer the torture."  
  
"Really?" The Thrush operative's eyes widened in surprise.  
  
"The time would pass quicker, if I were being tortured. If nothing else, I would be distracted from my impending doom by the amount of pain I was experiencing."  
  
"Hmm. I've never looked at it like that."  
  
"Don't get out in the field much, do you?"  
  
"Not really. I'm more of a strategist than an enforcer."  
  
"Still, here you are."  
  
"But not for very much longer. What does the timer say?"  
  
Kuryakin glanced over at the digital display. "Twenty four minutes."  
  
"I'd best be going…." He stood up. "Shall I leave the bottle, then?"  
  
"Aren't you at least going to tell me why you're going to be exploding a bomb in a high scale hotel?"  
  
"Oh. That. Well… it's to welcome in the New Year with a big boom. And to take out most of the dignitaries celebrating in the Grand Ballroom two flights below."  
  
"Not at all your idea."  
  
"Naturally not. The higher-ups, you know. They want to continue their attempts at world domination through terror, destruction, that sort of thing. Crude, but effective. And on that note, I really must be going. I want to make sure I get beyond the blast radius, you know."  
  
"I understand completely."  
  
"Sorry we couldn't have met under better circumstances, Mr. Kuryakin." O'Hearn headed for the exit.  
  
Kuryakin watched as the Thrush operative opened the door, started to step outside, and stumbled backwards inside, clutching his nose even as his bottom made contact with the tasteful beige carpeting. Napoleon Solo followed O'Hearn into the room, following up on his first punch with a blow to the jaw that made O'Hearn one with unconsciousness. Satisfied, Solo shut the door, took in the scene in the room, straightened out his tuxedo jacket, and smirked at his partner. "All the real operatives must have the evening off."  
  
"I was thinking the same thing," the Russian agreed. "He had an interesting theory, though-- world domination through good manners."  
  
"And the bomb?"  
  
"Like any good storm trooper, he was just following orders." Illya rattled his chain. "If you would be so kind…? I'd like to disarm the bomb before the ball drops in Times Square."  
  
Solo shook his head. "I'll handle the disarming, my friend." He pulled out his cigarette case and opened the secret compartment that held a small selection of miniature tools. He examined the fuse mechanism, clucking his tongue at the simplicity of the arrangement. He made short work of deactivating it, snipping the three wires in the correct sequence as Kuryakin looked on. "There you go," he said, stepping back from the now-dead unit. "Proves I'm good for something, after all."  
  
"It almost makes up for your horrid lack of attention to routine paperwork."  
  
"I _could_ leave you here, you know."  
  
"You could. But you won't. You need my help with the last expense report, after all…."  
  
Napoleon grimaced, but freed his partner from the chain. Tucking his clandestine tool kit back in his jacket, he commented, "Fifteen minutes until midnight. Shall we crash the shindig in the Grand Ballroom?"  
  
"I'm hardly dressed for it." Kuryakin gestured at his grey suit and black turtleneck. "And I'm missing my shoes."  
  
"Along with your tux."  
  
"The misplacement of my tuxedo is what brought me here in the first place."  
  
"Do tell."  
  
"Not until I have some food in me."  
  
"Kuryakin does not live by conversation alone." Solo smiled at his partner's sour expression. "The clean-up crew will be here any moment. Let's go over to my Aunt Amy's. She won't care _how_ you're dressed, and she always puts on a good New Year's spread."  
  
"You've talked me into it." Illya got off the bed. Pausing at the still-insensible O'Hearn, he searched him for his communicator (found) and Special (not found). He tucked the silver pen back in his inner jacket pocket.  
  
"Two weapons in two weeks," Solo commented. "The old man won't be pleased."  
  
Kuryakin shrugged, then pulled off O'Hearn's shoes. Checking the size, he quirked a miniscule grin before undoing the laces and sliding on the black dress shoes. "At least I won't have to be reimbursed for footwear."  
  
"That will make all the difference in the world." Napoleon gestured toward the door. "After you."  
  
"You're too kind." Illya led the way out of the room.


End file.
